


jelly worms

by iron_spider



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider/pseuds/iron_spider
Summary: Whatever they shot him with—what was it? Jesus, what was it? But whatever it was, it—strong. It was strong. It was bad. It still is bad. Currently—very bad. It’s blood swirling in milk. It’s a thousand pounds weighing on the crown of his head. His arms and legs aren’t working right, jelly worms, and he knows he’s not walking a straight line, and it doesn’t help that there’s no path and no rhyme or reason to where the fuck they are. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t—“Pete,” Tony says. He sounds tired, and he’s leaning on him hard, and when Peter readjusts his hold on him he feels the sticky bloom of blood on his side. It sends waves of panic through him, and he’s already dizzy and stumbling and he can’t lose Tony. He can’t.Peter grunts in response. It’s only dark and cold in front of him. Trees and trees and trees, and branches, branches that threaten to hit him in the face, branches thatdohit him in the face. Tony reaches out and tries to push them away. Even that slight movement seems to cause him pain, and another jolt of panic surges through Peter’s body.He’s gotta do something he’s gotta do something.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 87
Kudos: 599





	jelly worms

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to JULES! The best hype woman anybody could ask for, someone who sees tidbits and hears about ideas before anybody else. You are an inspiration and I have you in mind when I write almost all of these stories, because your reactions and appreciation make me want to keep writing even when I don't think I can. You are an incredible friend and support and I hope you love this because I LOVE YOU!

Another branch hits Peter in the face. 

Whatever they shot him with—

They? They? Who’s they?

Another branch. Harder, like the trees are sentient and out to get him. He feels the cuts and bruises.

Whatever they shot him with—what was it? Jesus, what was it? But whatever it was, it—strong. It was strong. It was bad. It still is bad. Currently—very bad. It’s blood swirling in milk. It’s a thousand pounds weighing on the crown of his head. His arms and legs aren’t working right, jelly worms, and he knows he’s not walking a straight line, and it doesn’t help that there’s no path and no rhyme or reason to where the fuck they are. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t—

“Pete,” Tony says. He sounds tired, and he’s leaning on him hard, and when Peter readjusts his hold on him he feels the sticky bloom of blood on his side. It sends waves of panic through him, and he’s already dizzy and stumbling and he can’t lose Tony. He can’t.

Peter grunts in response. It’s only dark and cold in front of him. Trees and trees and trees, and branches, branches that threaten to hit him in the face, branches that _do_ hit him in the face. Tony reaches out and tries to push them away. Even that slight movement seems to cause him pain, and another jolt of panic surges through Peter’s body. 

He’s gotta do something he’s gotta do something.

“Hang on,” Peter slurs, and he can hear himself slurring, and pinpricks of color skate across his vision. “Hang on, dad.”

_Whoops._

Tony snorts, holding onto him a little tighter. “Dad,” he repeats. “You’re out of it.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, face burning. Something cracks under his foot. Something and then something else and something else. He wonders if someone is chasing them. Someone that wants to snatch them back up, lock them away again, for God knows why. Peter’s senses are out of whack and he can hear shit and not hear shit and he only hones in on their own footsteps. He can’t hear others.

“Don’t be sorry.”

Peter doesn’t remember the capture. He barely remembers what the fuck day it is. He doesn’t know how long he was out, hardly remembers where they woke up—it was dank and dingy, dusty, stifling. All he knows now is that he broke a pair of handcuffs, beat up a couple of heavily-armed guys and dragged Tony out of there. There were sprays of bullets. But then someone shot him with something that wasn’t a bullet, and the world started melting, and then there was a scuffle with dark shadows and they were running through the trees. Then Tony was bleeding, and Peter’s fear tried to choke him. 

His memories are hazy, wrapped in gauze. His brain is toppling like giant jenga.

He has no idea where they are or what the fuck is going on but he knows Tony is in trouble. He’s in trouble and Peter has to help. 

“Peter.”

Peter feels like he hears people talking, hears yelping, screaming somewhere close—far? He’s piano strings. He’s off notes. Clang. Clang.

“I think they’re following us,” Peter whispers. 

They keep walking. “I feel like there would be a lot more shooting if that was the case,” Tony says. 

Peter listens hard, hurting his head with the strain, but there’s nothing again. Swaying trees. He feels like he can hear the rush of the planets if he listens hard enough, the universe screaming at him.

_SAVE HIM. SAVE HIM._

Tony leans on him heavily, and when Peter glances at him Tony grits his teeth. “Bud, bud, you’re going all over the place, we gotta—we gotta stop.”

Peter doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. 

“You don’t hear anybody, right? I don’t.”

Peter keeps listening. Wind. Pounding of his own heart. Screeching stars.

Tony grips his shoulder where he’s got his arm slung around him, and it stops Peter in his tracks. Like a jolt of lightning. He sort of feels like it’s raining, he doesn’t know if it’s real or if it’s not or if he’s just crying, and he leans towards Tony, sucking in a breath. “I can’t—I’ve gotta focus, you’re—you’re hurt—”

“We don’t even know where the hell we are,” Tony says. “Shit.”

Peter stares hard in the dark, trying to make out the lines of Tony’s face. “You don’t remember either?”

“We were—ugh, we were at that convention—”

“Convention,” Peter says, hardly remembering the word let alone anything having to do with it, and he knows it’s raining now. Or is it? He gets bits and pieces—tables lined up in rows, doors he could only go through because he was escorted by Tony Stark. Science convention? The science convention? That sounds stupid. That sounds fake. Where the fuck _are they?_ “We’re in the woods,” he whispers.

“We’re—among trees.” Tony sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if this is a genuine—wood—Pete, I gotta sit. I’m sorry, kid, I gotta—”

“No, no,” Peter says. “No sorry.” They both say it too much.

He tries to help him to the ground and the world shifts under their feet, as if they’re traipsing around on top of some sea monster, startling it awake. Tony doesn’t sway with him, which means it’s just more effects of the drugs sinking their teeth in him. Why the fuck did he manage to get shot with something? When Tony needs him? Moron, _moron._

Peter gasps, and a new sheet of rain comes down loud all of a sudden, scattering all around them. Peter gets them both sitting, and still feels the blood pumping out of the wound in Tony’s side. Peter is coherent enough to understand that.

To understand he might lose him. Because he fucked up. He fucked up.

Leaves and sticks crunch under them, and Tony gasps again. His breath comes in wheezes, and Peter clutches at his arm, still around Peter’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers. 

“For what? Stop.”

How many times has Peter come close to losing him? How many nightmares? The nightmares rise up now like the drugs are fueling them—they dig in his skull, bring up headstones, hysterics, horror. Worlds that aren’t real to him but real to other Peters. Less fortunate Peters. Peters with loss and loss and loss.

Peter _clutches_ at him. “If I—if I—”

“No if you,” Tony whispers, close to him. He rests his forehead against Peter’s temple. “You do realize I’m here too, yeah? I’m not a comatose torso you carry around for kicks. I was there, I fucked up too—look, I got stabbed, you got drugged. Even Steven. We both escaped so we’re fine, you know, it could be a lot worse.”

Peter is crying in earnest now and it’s for too many reasons and he doesn’t want to be doing it. “Is it raining?” he asks. 

“That’s a big negative,” Tony says, his breathing more labored. He still leans there, and Peter holds onto him.

“Great,” Peter says, closing his eyes. The world shifts underneath them again, and that’s probably not happening, and God he feels dizzy. “We’re on—another planet, I think.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes.”

“No, Pete.”

Peter sniffles, shaking his head. “I gotta—Tony, I gotta go look for help. I gotta go—find somebody.”

Tony laughs a little bit, and Peter feels him lean away. “You just thought we were on another planet. You wanna go find an alien? Ask an alien for help.”

Peter opens his eyes and glares at him. “You convinced me we’re not.”

“Usually it’s not that easy,” Tony says, smiling. “To convince you. Remind me next time to do it—precisely like that. Save us a lot of time.”

It’s dark, really dark, but Peter can see that Tony looks paler. He’s blinking slowly, and he blows out a breath. “Pete, I’m—shit, I wish we had some tech or something. Fucking anything.”

Peter’s world is green. Putrid yellow. Tony is dying. Bleeding out, and Peter can’t help him. He wonders if the people that took them know he’s Spider-Man. If Tony dies, he’ll find them. Peter will _find them_. He hates hurting people, he hates these thoughts, but it’s Tony. _Tony_. Tony has been through enough. Tony saved the world. Tony saved _him_. He can’t die, he can’t. He can’t. 

Peter shifts away from him, letting go of his arm. It slips a bit down Peter’s back, and he can tell Tony is having a hard time keeping hold of him.

The trees sway like church bells. A funeral.

“Pete—”

“I gotta go look,” Peter says, his throat burning like he has to puke. “I gotta—I gotta help—I gotta help you.”

“Stay here,” Tony says, voice weaker now. “Don’t go.”

Peter plants both hands in the dirt, trying to push himself to his feet. “Gotta save you. Goddamnit, Tony. Please—please, please let me.”

There’s a silence as Peter struggles against the drug, against his fear, and Tony’s hand is suddenly gentle at the base of Peter’s neck. A familiar, grounding touch, a reminder of all the times he’s been there. All that Peter stands to lose.

“Stay with me,” Tony whispers. Clearly fading.

_You did this. You failed. He’s dying._

Peter can’t think. He swallows a sob and turns, watching as Tony’s eyelids droop, and the world swaps colors again, red now, deep red, staining the sky and the trees. Peter reaches across and presses both hands to the wound, fingers trembling, and Tony winces again.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“Just go to sleep.”

“No!” Peter says, too loud, but it’s like a trigger, and he instantly feels heavy. Grotesque. A monster marionette, and they’ve got his strings from miles away. They won’t let him help. He shrinks. Shrinks with his failure. “Tony.”

“It’s—okay. Totally fine. Ace—aces.” Tony sighs and slumps forward, leaning hard on Peter’s shoulder now. Dead weight.

Peter fizzles. 

_No, no._

Pressing hard, blood pumping through his hands. 

He won’t be able to get it out once Tony is gone. No matter how much scrubbing. The memory of Tony’s pain. The smear of his final moments.

“No,” Peter says, ringing in his ears. He thinks he hears birds. More shouting. He wishes they had tech, too. But they don’t have suits. No Karen or Friday. His phone’s gone. Even his fucking watch is gone. They took it all. They must have. They don’t have shit. Just each other.

They’re millions of miles away. Lost. Tony’s dying.

Peter’s heart is splitting, and he looks up at the spread of stars. Something cascades by, as if in slow motion. 

“A UFO,” Peter whispers. “Tony, I was—I was close.”

Tony doesn’t respond. Peter presses harder, and stares up at it. He’s slipping, the world closing in on them like a fold up mattress. 

He stares. 

That’s not a UFO. 

He’s seen—he blinks, before it disappears. He’s seen one of those before. Is that—it goes, fading behind the tree line—was that a fucking _frisbee?_

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, drifting now, himself, even though he doesn’t want to, even though he’s strobe lights and power surges on the inside. But his eyes droop. “Hey. Tony. Frisbee. Frisbee.”

~

He wakes up thrashing. His headache is massive and splitting, rainbows tattooed on his vision as he launches himself from wherever the hell he is. People converge on him, crowds in white, and they’ve got hands on him but he knocks them off, knocks them away. He’s not thinking, not focusing, not reining himself in, and he knocks these faceless whoevers into equipment and things smash and crash and he tries to stumble away.

Too much strength.

He’s seeing through a fisheye lens. Black and white, save for the aura, and God, his head hurts. What happened? What happened? Where is he? Where’s Tony?

The walls extend and stretch out. Reflect off each other, funhouse terror. He sees a door, and starts stumbling towards it. Gotta get out, gotta get out.

“Baby. Baby. Stop, stop, you’re safe.”

Peter spins around on the spot. “May?” he says, feeling how dry his mouth really is. Her voice is warm, but she sounds like she’s in a cave somewhere. Not close. Who were all those other assholes? Why are people _messing with him?_ “Where’s Tony? Where’s—where’s—”

He takes a wrong step, trips, collapses. 

_Shit._

He’s a pile of goo. Boneless. There’s blood in his mouth now. This can’t be a good place. Why is he so fucked up? 

He drags himself along the tile floor, fish out of water, a hook in his heel. He feels a hand on his back. Her hand.

This can’t be a good place. They must have her too.

“No, no that’s—that’s not allowed,” he says, half muffled against the floor. He keeps trying to crawl. “C’mon, May. C’mon. Escape. We gotta—Tony. Find.”

“Baby, relax,” May says. “Relax, stop. Stop. You don’t need to escape.”

He keeps trying to pull himself forward but it’s like someone flipped a switch again, and the pain in his head is astronomical now, howling and tearing him in half. Each movement is agony and he’s definitely dying now, too. For sure dying. One hundred percent dead.

“May,” he says, blinking, his world tipping and turning upside down. “I saw. A frisbee.”

Darkness.

~

Peter wakes up in a chair. 

Not a hostage strapped down. More like an old man that’s fallen asleep in front of the TV. The chair is soft and cushy, with the footrest raised. He’s in pajamas now, and a hoodie, and he’s got fluffy Christmas socks on. He’s attached to an IV, and he blinks up at it.

He doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore. He feels a little shaky, but nothing like before. But the panic about Tony, that’s—that’s still foremost on his mind. He blinks out at the room, and immediately recognizes it as Tony’s cabin. The bed in front of him is unmade and messy, and he hears the sink running in the bathroom.

“Hello?” Peter asks, gently pushing the foot rest down. “Uh…”

Tony walks out of the bathroom, and he grins over at him. He looks...fine. He looks like nothing happened.

“Hey kid,” Tony says, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. “How you feeling? You alright?”

Peter stares at him. Blinks. Leans forward, planting his feet on the ground. The IV pulls a little, and Tony’s eyes are drawn to it.

“I’m—I feel—better,” Peter says. Slowly.

“Yeah, your color’s coming back,” Tony says, looking him over. “Your eyes are clear.”

Peter keeps staring. Tony’s fine. Not bleeding. Not dying, and when he realizes this is real life, Peter’s heart finally settles. _Thank God._

But nothing makes sense.

“Did I— _dream_ —everything?” Peter asks.

“I wish,” Tony says, scoffing. He looks off towards the door.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, reading his mind and brushing him off. “It was—fine. A flesh wound. Lots of blood, whatever, we patched it up real quick. But whatever concoction they shot you with, Jesus, Pete, it put you through the ringer. You woke up at least seven fucking times—”

“ _Seven!?_ ” Peter yells, eyes wide. 

Tony nods solemnly. 

Peter’s heart is beating wildly. “I only—barely—remember one, after the forest—”

Tony lets out a laugh, and he smiles, looking down at his feet. “Forest—yeah, it was seven times, and it was like you were drunk and high at the same time, and finally I decided to bring you here and see how that went. Because whenever you woke up in the med bay you acted insane, and you didn’t do well in your apartment or the tower, and I just thought this—this and some time with the antidote, some time with the fluids—might work best. May’s here too. She, Pep and Morgan are in town. I’ll text in a few and let them know sleeping beauty is awake.”

Peter blows out a breath. “It’s been—”

“Four days,” Tony says. “Since they found us.” He rolls his eyes. Sets his jaw.

“Who took us?” Peter asks. “Where the hell were we?”

“Random ass morons, some of them had connections to that Lonnie Thompson guy you rumbled with a couple months back, but it doesn’t seem like they knew you were...you. They were going after me and they grabbed you because you were there with me. But they might have suspicions after that big Spidey Strength display you put on, so—we’re dealing with that. We’ve got ‘em all.”

“We got them?” Peter asks. “Weren’t we—Tony, where were we?”

Tony looks at him for what feels like a really long time. “Brace yourself, Peter. Because this—didn’t sit well with me.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Um. I have no idea what you’re about to say.”

Tony sighs. “We weren’t on some—remote, villainous, forest island in the middle of the Pacific. We weren’t on another planet. We were—in fucking Central Park.”

Peter stares.

And stares.

Then he claps his hands, nearly yanking the IV out of his arm. He falls back in unruly laughter. “ _That’s_ why I saw the frisbee!”

Tony shakes his head at him. “Yeah, you mentioned it more than one time. I’m surprised some goddamn tourist didn’t stumble upon us and wonder what the fuck was going on.”

Peter sits back against the chair. “Wow. Wow. Central Park.”

“Eleven PM. They had a bunker underground that was old as shit that nobody knew about, and apparently we were steps away from the Alice in Wonderland statue when Steve and Rhodey found us. If I had seen that—I would have thought we were in hell.”

Peter laughs again, and then a moment passes as Tony sits in their mutual embarrassment. To be fair, they were really messed up, so Peter doesn’t feel _that_ bad. It’s definitely a story he’ll keep from Ned.

He sits there and really looks at Tony. The memories are half-formed, at best, but he remembers the blood. Remembers the fear. He clears his throat. “Well, I’m—I’m—I’m really glad you’re fine. Because that freaked me out, like, all the blood, through my—drugged-out mindset, I was—like, not okay with it.” He clears his throat again.

He’ll never be okay with it.

Tony smiles fondly at him. “I’m okay, Spidey. You’re fine, I’m fine, I’m gonna put a tracker in your wrist like I wanted to when we first met so we won’t have to deal with this shit in the future. And then I can find you when you’re ignoring me.”

Peter snorts. “When do I ignore you? When?”

Tony gets up, with the first wince Peter’s seen since he woke up here. Then Tony dips down, cupping the back of Peter’s head and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. Then he straightens back up and winces again. “Ignoring that question, because you know very well. Anyway, we all worked together and made that cheese-stuffed ravioli you like, and I don’t think anybody would be mad if you started to eat before they got back. You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, smiling up at him. So, so glad he’s okay. So, so glad he didn’t lose him.

“Of course,” Tony says. He winks at him, and heads for the door. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Ps, we’re never going back to Central Park. Like. Never. Unless it’s completely revamped, like, overhaul.”

“Yeah, that—that makes sense,” Peter says, kicking up the footrest again, and leaning back, closing his eyes.

They’re safe. Safe. 

Self-banned from Central Park.

But. Safe.


End file.
